Seeking Mr. Wrong by Natalie Charles

Author:Natalie Charles
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pocket Star

ERIC GRABBED a vodka from the bar and we got to talking. He was two years older than me and had a master’s in education administration. I groaned. “That sounds horrible.”

“A little bit.” He laughed as he lifted his tumbler. “Have you started your courses yet?”

All teachers in Connecticut are required to obtain their master’s degree. I’d been chiseling away at mine, taking a class here and there, mostly over the summers, and only electives that sounded interesting. I was going to be left with a bulk of unpleasant requirements to fulfill before it was over. “I think at this rate, I’ll have it by the time I retire.”

“Such dedication.”

I could see from the crinkle at the edges of his eyes that he was teasing, but I still couldn’t resist delivering my own jab. “You can’t judge me. Let’s talk about dedication to teaching: you still have a bartending job.”

“It’s mostly my buddy’s bar, but I’m part-owner. I have an interest in making it work.”

Now this was intriguing. Eric had ownership in Bar Harbor? Mindy joined us, breathless and smiling, before I could ask him a follow-up. “Hi, Eric. Fancy meeting you here.”

“He owns the place,” I mused, and swirled my drink around in my glass.

“Partly. Trust me, it’s not that impressive.”

Mindy took the empty stool and set her handbag on top of the table. “So what happened with the hot guy with the neck tattoo? No good?”

Eric snickered and shook his head, taking another sip of his vodka.

“It wasn’t a love connection,” I explained.

“Too bad. He seemed promising.”

“Not so much,” I said, and exchanged a glance with Eric. We shared a smile. “I’ll fill you in later.”

Mindy reached into her bag and pulled out her phone. “Shoot. Looks like Chase called. He wants to hang out. Do you mind—?”

I waved her off. “Go. Invite him here.”

Mindy slid off the stool and was calling Chase before she’d even left the table. I looked at Eric. “He’s a friend.”

“Ah.” He tapped his fingertips against the tumbler and stared at the table. “You’re a puzzle, you know.”

“Sorry?”

“Writing children’s books. Picking up guys with neck tattoos in bars.”

“It was only the one.”

“Still. You can’t tell me he’s really your type.”

I thought about asking Eric what he thought my “type” was, since he seemed to be the expert. But instead I changed the subject. My love life and my types were topics for therapy, not chitchat. So we talked about other things, and it turned out we had a lot in common: we were children of divorced parents; aside from our teaching degrees, we graduated college with liberal arts training that had little practical application outside of a classroom (him, history, me, art with a focus in painting); we had older siblings (he was a middle child with one younger brother and an older sister); we enjoyed craft beers; and we pretended to dislike rainy days, while secretly believing they were a great excuse to be lazy.

Pretty soon Mindy and Chase were chatting off in the corner over a plate of hot wings, and I made a quick mental note to follow up with her.

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